


and the tangled woods surrounding us

by wariangle



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 01:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1709981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wariangle/pseuds/wariangle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saxa spits on the blade she is whetting and mutters something in German. Mira has no grasp of the Germanic tongue, but she still understands the sentiment and sends Saxa a dark look in response.</p><p>Mira teaches Saxa the bow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and the tangled woods surrounding us

“We cannot face the Romans with fucking sticks!”

Irritated by their stubborn belief in the sword as only mean to bring down enemies, Mira loudly retaliates, “Then I will teach you the bow.”

Saxa spits on the blade she is whetting and mutters something in German. Mira has no grasp of the Germanic tongue, but still she understands the sentiment and sends Saxa a dark look in response.

The bow is a formidable weapon, she has come to learn. It takes less practice to handle than the sword and to them, greatly outnumbered as they are, picking off Romans from a distance is an effective tactic. But only if the thick-headed Germans realise the value of it and starts practicing instead of grumbling about the lack of steel.

Leaving them to Oenomaus she gathers a company of former house slaves and brings them into the woods. Naevia joins them and for that Mira is grateful – Naevia and Crixus has been all but inseparable lately and Naevia leaving his side for Mira’s is a show of support Mira greatly appreciates.

They only have two actual bows, but Lucius taught her how to fashion more from wood and while they are certainly not beautiful they perform intended task. She lines her pupils up and has them shooting against trees, trying to instruct them the same that Lucius instructed her.

It takes time and effort, but when shadows start to lengthen, at least most are able to hit their targets, if not always with enough force to have the arrow pierce wood. Flesh is easier to impale than trees, naturally, but armour is not.

“You have done well,” she says. It is getting increasingly dark and more and more arrows whizz pass their intended goals. “Lets resume training with morning light.”

 

Next day’s practice ends prematurely due to Spartacus’ festivities. Mira thinks of protesting, but she remembers her own words only weeks past and realises that this is what they need. Relaxation from the ever-present threat of the Republic, if only for a short span of time. It is what she needs as well, she realises, a cup filled with wine in hand and one arm draped over a smiling Naevia, with the ache in her heart still so raw. Wine and foolishness quiet even the darkest of thoughts.

That Spartacus has some scheme or other she does not doubt, so for her there is little surprise when he announces the contests. She takes great pleasure in watching the men pound each other into the sand, she and Naevia trying to guess who will win and bickering amicably when they disagree with the other.

Mira is, however, surprised when she hear her own and Saxa’s names announced. Spartacus looks at her expectantly while indicating that she should step out on the sand. Bold from drink and aided by a laughing Naevia she walks down the steps. Saxa moves to stand beside her, but not before she has emptied her jug of wine. Mira turns to look at her and expects mockery or some muttered German insult, but all Saxa does is give her a determined nod before turning towards their opponents.

Karme is a swift and agile and training have made a good fighter of her, so Mira is happy to let Saxa have her. Torstein is large and strong, but slow and has had far too much wine. Even so he manages, due to a stupid move on her part, get his arms around her neck and shoulders, applying all his strength to holding her fast. She is grateful to have Saxa come to aid and together they finish him off easily.

Mira does not expect the kiss. Saxa grabs hold of her chin, her sword-hardened palm rough against Mira’s skin, to reel her in and plant a hard, triumphant kiss on her mouth. It is over in moments, Mira stumbling back as Saxa releases her, the sound of laughter and cheering loud in her ears. Mira feels her cheek burn from something more than just drink.

 

The day after, Saxa joins bow practice. Mira does not know if it is because she was ordered or of free will and she does not ask. She hands Saxa a bow and an arrow and lets Saxa aim and pull back the string.

“Do not hold it so hard,” Mira instructs, putting her hand over Saxa’s on the bow to gentle her grip. “Pull the string to your cheek and make sure your arm is straight.”

Saxa alters her position without a word. Mira touches her elbow to lower the end of the arrow slightly, the dappled light playing across the tensed muscles in Saxa’s arm as she does so.

“There,” Mira says. “Take a breath and release the arrow with it.”

Saxa’s first shot misses. Mira refrains from gloating, but feels a small sting of satisfaction. Saxa does not fare much better with her subsequent shots and by the eighth time she sends her arrow way-ward she is outright growling.

After yet a few more missed shots, Mira takes pity on her and moves over to Saxa’s side again.

“Weapon useless,” Saxa mutters, brow twisted into a scowl.

“The fault lies not with the weapon,” Mira counters, not particularly gently. “This not a sword-fight; do not treat it as such.” She has studied Saxa and her problem lie clearly in her all too hasty and sharp movements. Saxa is used to fighting with steel in close engagement with her enemy; a bow demands different handling.

She steps forward to stand directly behind Saxa and puts her hands on hers. Heat radiates from Saxa’s sun-burned flesh – perhaps the reason she chose to stay out in the shady forest rather than the training yard when the sun burns mercilessly. Silver, in the shape of wings, glint in one of her braids, Mira notices.

“Your movements,” Mira says, “have to be gentle but sure.” With her hands covering Saxa’s, she lifts the bow and pulls the string back until the feather of the arrow brushes lightly against Saxa’s cheek.

“Keep your back straight,” Mira says and puts her hands on Saxa’s waist to direct her. “Your eyes on the target. Breathe in and let go.”

The arrow nicks the trunk of a tree, but then whirrs off into the woods and Saxa bares her teeth in a silent snarl.

“Here,” Mira says, taking another arrow from the quiver by her hip and handing it to Saxa. “Again.”

 

Mira is pleased by the swift progress the archers make, even though it means that she constantly has blade and sticks in hand, making new arrows.

Apart from training, hunting and digging the escape tunnel, all they do is wait. It is tearing at nerves and patience and the fragile alliances Spartacus built with drink and games are at times teetering dangerously close to ruin. But they do preserve – all of them have endured worse beneath Roman roof and lash.

When it grows too much – the waiting, the anxiousness and Spartacus’ amiable coldness towards her – she takes her bow and disappears into the woods in the evenings, perfecting her aim in the near-dark.

“Training late,” she hears Saxa’s voice and she jerks from the string, sending the arrow flying far past the tree she was aiming towards.

Saxa chuckles and Mira sends her a dark look. “You move like shadow,” she says.

“Used to… wood,” Saxa says, punching tree with her fist to make her meaning clear. “Many trees East of Rhine.”

Mira does not bother going after the missing arrow. She puts another one to the string and places it right in the middle of a tree she can just barely make out.

“Eyes like owl,” Saxa says. “Out here alone,” she continues, “not scared of Romans?”

Mira shrugs. “I do not think they will come this night,” she says. She sends of another arrow and hears the dull thud as it impales the wood.

“Good,” Saxa says. “Enemies fall before you.”

Mira glances at her, thinking it said in mockery, but she seems sincere, tentative grasp of the common tongue her only offense.

“You are good, as well,” Mira says. She grins. “With blade.”

Saxa snorts. “I make enemies fall with bow.”

She hit more targets than she missed yesterday, but even so she would certainly fare better with her knives.

“But not well like you,” Saxa says. She has moved closer during the exchange and when Mira turns to look at her they are but scant distance apart. A distance that Saxa swiftly closes, leaning over to seal her mouth over Mira’s.

It is unexpected, but Saxa’s mouth is warm and wanting against hers and Mira has found herself growing ever colder for too long. She returns the kiss, greedily indulging in the rare treat of being desired.

Her back thuds against a tree, Saxa flush against her front. Mira drapes one arm over her shoulder, hand grabbing hold of her neck. Scrabbling fingers slide the cloth of Mira’s dress from her shoulder and a gasp slips from between her lips as Saxa’s hands cup her breasts, fingertips rolling the bud of her nipples between them.

In an attempt to relieve the mounting heat between her legs, Mira slings one leg over Saxa’s hip, pushing their groins together, a groan falling from her lips as Saxa moves against her. Saxa’s teeth find the flesh of her lower lip, biting down, hands grasping roughly around Mira’s breast, and the heat builds and surges inside of her.

Saxa whispers, tersely, in Mira’s ear, “Want you.” Hot kisses are pressed to Mira’s chin, down her neck – teeth scrape against her thudding pulse. “Want to _fuck_.” The word is emphasised with another hard push of her hips and Mira lets out another groan, bites her lip, and thinks that she will give Saxa anything, whatever she wants as long as she does not withdraw her touch.

Saxa’s hands does not leave her breasts and her greedy mouth returns to Mira’s, but it seems like she is expecting an answer so Mira gives a hasty nod, unable to speak with how hot her blood is running in her veins. Her hands find Saxa’s ass, grabs hold to move their hips even more firmly together, and Saxa laughs, low and hoarsely.

She dips down, sucks a nipple into her mouth and Mira sighs, one hand going up to form a fist in Saxa’s hair. The sensation of Saxa’s fingers raking up her inner thigh has her tilting her head back and she sucks in a harsh breath as the fingers plunge inside her.

Saxa is rough with the way she fucks her and Mira expected little else. Saxa is a creature of steel and growls and sharp angles, leaving little room for gentleness. It sends wave upon wave of pleasure through Mira’s body and she thrusts her hips against Saxa, searching for and needing more.

Saxa grins at her as Mira’s breath turns to pants, her body moving against Mira’s with every thrust of her fingers, her hand slowly sliding from Mira’s breast up her arms and shoulder, fingers winding around the curve of the bone. Saxa says something in German and reels her in for another kiss. Mira returns it, clutches at Saxa with her hands, nails digging into soft flesh, as the pleasure crashes through her like bursts of lightning.

Suddenly, Saxa’s fingers leave her empty and both her hands grab hold of Mira’s hips, lifting her up. Next, Mira finds herself spread out on the forest floor, leaves and dirt making a bed beneath her. The weight of Saxa’s body as she lowers herself down on her is welcome and Mira encloses her in her arms, using her strength to hold her pressed against her, chest to chest, stomach to stomach.

Their mouths meet and clash into another kiss and Saxa’s hand finds itself back between Mira’s legs, fingers stroking soft and teasingly before sliding inside of her anew. Her thumb starts to stroke against the small sensitive nub and Mira moans, a renewed tide of pleasure rising within.

Mira’s arms must fall from Saxa without her noticing because Saxa moves to hold herself up using her free arm, looking down at Mira, eyes fastened on hers and teeth bared in a grinning snarl. She is panting, too, and Mira lefts her neck, reaching for Saxa’s mouth, to taste her again. Saxa’s tongue steals inside her mouth and Mira bites down hard for a moment and Saxa grunts and grins, presses a fleeting peck to the corner of Mira’s mouth.

Mira cries out as she finishes, the sound growing in the dark forest, and gasps against Saxa’s mouth as Saxa kisses her again as her hand slowly gentle inside of her, eventually stilling completely.

As she begins to regain hold of her senses, she returns the soft kisses Saxa is pressing against her lips. There is a good, heavy feeling inside her body, her pulse thrumming loudly in her ears in rhythm to the pleasant ache between her legs.

“I…” Mira swallows, makes a new attempt. “I would return favour,” she says. Her hand trembles as she brings it up to brush away a few strands of hair from Saxa’s face. She must have dug her fingers into the soil of the forest floor in the midst of her climax, she realises, because they are dark with dirt. “As soon as ability to move returns,” she adds and Saxa gives a satisfied grin. She pulls her fingers free and bends down to mould their mouths together, kissing Mira for a long moment.

She pulls back lingeringly. “Like this,” she says, touching a finger to Mira’s lips and Mira nods hastily.

“Yes,” she agrees breathlessly, eager to taste Saxa.

Saxa moves until she is straddling Mira’s chest and Mira’s hands go to her thighs, spreading them wide. They shift until Mira can reach her cunt easily with her mouth and she flicks her tongue out in a slow, teasing stroke. Saxa bends forward, finds a tree to brace against with her hand. Her mouths fall open as Mira licks into her, deep moans echoing in the silence of the forest.

 

They are in need of more meat and so early next morn, Mira prepares her bow to go hunting. She finds herself spending increasing amounts of time in the forest, preferring its empty quiet to the bustling of the over-filled temple.

Saxa stops her with a hand on her arm as she is about to step outside. She is holding a make-shift spear. “Company?” she asks and Mira agrees with a nod.

They do not talk, both of them focused on tracking a deer whose prints they quickly discover upon entering the woods. There is a mark on the column of Saxa’s throat, visible only when her hair is pulled back over her shoulders, that Mira made last night.

Mira has an arrow ready on the string and when they finally come across the animal, she takes aim on its neck and fires, but the deer moves unexpectedly and her arrow does little more than startle it.

Saxa launches her spear, but the deer is quick and the sharp tip merely grazes its flank. It gives Mira enough time to send off another arrow, however, and this one she places firmly in the animal’s neck, causing it to topple over onto the ground.

“Good kill,” Saxa grunts as they carry the heavy cadaver back to the temple. “Meat many days.”

“Gratitude for assistance,” Mira says. _And company_ , she does not add, but she thinks it. Her skin is still remembering Saxa’s touch and her cunt her fingers, but she does not know what this thing between them is. Before, as a slave, all touches were impersonal – nothing but a task among many. Spartacus she clung to in hope of knowing the love of which he spoke – a love Mira could barely even imagine but was desperate for nevertheless. Saxa is something else entirely and Mira does not know what she wants, only that she grows warm all over at the thought of the night before.

 

With the fresh meat, they eat well that evening. Mira is busying herself with making more arrows as Saxa brings her a bowl of stew.

“Taste proud kill,” Saxa says, sitting down next to Mira on the stairs. “We have arrows to bring down legion.”

“Let us hope so,” Mira replies, but she puts the knife and the half-finished arrows down to accept the food.

“Rome come soon,” Saxa says.

“Yes,” Mira agrees. “It will not be long.”

“Might bring our deaths,” Saxa says. The prospect does not seem to concern her much.

“If so, we die as free women,” Mira says with a wry smile, echoing Spartacus, and Saxa grins at her before turning to her bowl to soak up the last of the stew with a piece of bread. At the motion, light catches in her hair, causing it to glimmer.

“This,” Mira says, hesitating for but a second before reaching out and touching the silver tangled in Saxa’s hair. As she picks the braid out she sees that above the pair of wings is a charm shaped as a skull. “What is it?”

Saxa shrugs. “From Roman,” she says indifferently. “Freedom or death. Never again slavery.”

Mira lets the braid slip from her fingers. Freedom or death. What other possibilities lie before them at this point? Freedom or death, either in battle or on cross. It is not a promising future.

When darkness falls, Mira takes her sleeping roll and moves to stand next to Saxa’s.

“I would share my nights with you,” Mira says. “If you are so inclined.”

“I am inclined,” Saxa says and shifts until Mira has room to lie down next to her.

It is a pleasant sensation, the feel of another’s heart beating next to her, the sound of another’s breath in her ear. Saxa does not hesitate in wrapping herself firmly around Mira and the closeness is comforting in addition to warding off the chill that seem to have settled permanently in Mira’s bones. She raises her chin and kisses Saxa, Saxa returning it warmly.

“ _Guten nacht, bärchen_ ,” Saxa mumbles into her hair.

 

The fight seems to have ignited fire inside of Saxa, regardless of the dreary cold of Vesuvius’ tip. She seems the only one to not consider their victory a defeat – they may have won this battle, but now they are trapped with little food and supplies and with Glaber and his men waiting patiently beneath to starve them out.

Saxa drags Mira away, as far as is possible on the inhospitable mountaintop, and they fuck roughly on the hard ground, Saxa’s red-splattered hands leaving bloody marks in their wake as they move across Mira’s skin, and Mira grabs at her, holding her close. It is just now she realises the worry she carried for Saxa down on the ground, two small blades and the sheer strength of willpower her only defence against enemy soldiers.

The stone scrapes at Mira’s back and the wind causes gooseflesh to rise, but she cares little for the discomfort. Instead they cling to and move against each other, celebrating their victory and finding themselves yet of this world.

 

Compared to the top of the mountain, the temple was luxurious and mood grows quickly foul from hunger and cold. Saxa seems especially affected. While always taciturn, she has barely made an attempt to form words in common language in the last days, choosing instead to mutter lowly in German. Mira is almost glad that work more often than not forces her from Saxa’s side to Spartacus’ to aid in finding solutions to their many and all too pressing troubles. She and Saxa yet huddle together in sleep, but for all other intents and purposes it is as if the closeness between them never was. Mira is growing so very tired of the empty ache in her heart, now renewed and ever heavier to bear.

She is called from dark thoughts and from scouring the barren ground for edible greens by angry shouts and growls, a few of which she recognizes as Saxa’s, and immediately goes looking for the cause of the disturbance.

It is Saxa, with blood dripping from her lip, locked in a fight with one of the German men and as Mira watches she slams her fist into his face, shouting abuse at him. Mira is not the only one that has come running and Spartacus and Agron combine their efforts to separate the two of them.

“What is this?” Spartacus asks, a heavy hand on the German’s shoulder enough to hold him still. Agron does not fare so well – Saxa is livid and he doubles over as she pounds her elbow into his stomach. Mira hurries to them to aid in holding Saxa back. They cannot afford physical injury. Not here and not now. Even minor wounds could prove fatal without medica and supplies.

“Mad… bitch!” the German man grunts out, and Mira thinks that perhaps they should have began with teaching them some useful words instead of insults and swears.

Saxa retaliates in German, straining against Agron’s grip.

“Borrow blade!” the German says, pointing at Saxa’s knife lying on the stone. “Then… mad!”

Mira steps in front of Saxa and places her hands on her face to inspect the damage. Her lip is split and there will be swelling, but besides that she is fine.

“What happened?” she asks quietly, but Saxa just twists her face to the side, her eyes dark.

That night they fall to sleep without words, back to back, and with the wind howling mercilessly over the mountaintop.

 

Dawn has broken and yet Mira remains on her bedroll, eyes closed. She has no wish to rise to another day of hunger and cold, complaints and bitterness, and Saxa’s anger. They need to get off this mountain one way or another before long, ere they start tearing each other to pieces from frustration.

During the night either or both of them have moved and so Saxa is a warm presence at Mira’s back, and as Mira comes to she finds Saxa’s fingers leisurely drawing invisible designs on her arm.

“Not rise,” Saxa mumbles when Mira shifts minutely. “Stay.”

“There is much work to be done,” Mira replies, but her reluctance is evident in her voice. Saxa’s nearness is welcome – as is the soft kiss she leaves against Mira’s neck, as if a wordless apology.

Saxa is quiet for a short moment before grumbling, “Spartacus has heart and day. Let me have morning for while longer.”

Perhaps it is meant in jest, but when Mira, shocked by the revelation, hastily turns, Saxa’s face is carefully concealed by mask of indifference. But Mira will not let her slip away, not if this is the key to Saxa’s sour mood.

“Spartacus has my assistance during the day, it is true,” Mira says slowly. Her fingers seek out the charms in Saxa’s hair, as countless times before, the skull and the wings shining dully in the bleak daylight. “But he does not have my heart.”

She does not offer anything more, nor does she give Saxa the chance to form words. Instead, Mira leans in and kisses her deeply.

Mira has grown too careful of her heart for hasty words, especially here, in this hellish place. Saxa’s hand cups her chin and Mira smiles into the kiss, reminded of their first. Her fingers are still toying with the jewellery in Saxa’s hair, the edge of a wing a soft pinprick against the tip of her finger.

Freedom or death. They are at a crossroads. If they get off this mountain, they will live. They will put Roman soil far behind them. Perhaps they will turn to the lands East of the Rhine; perhaps they will cross the sea. Away from Vesuvius, they will turn from Rome – as well as from blood, death and vengeance. Of that Mira will make sure.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://wariangle.tumblr.com/)!


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